


yes a heart will always go one step too far

by leigh57



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 15:37:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9826844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leigh57/pseuds/leigh57
Summary: She kisses him back until she’s sure he’s not thinking about lying or selfishness or anything except how good it feels to finally be able to do this whenever they want to.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from ‘Go Places,’ by the New Pornographers. The song is so lovely:)

She’s in that soothing drifty place, hovering just seconds from sleep, blankets warm over her shoulder and the cotton sheet cool and comforting beneath her fingers.

But she can’t quite fall, because even though he doesn’t move or make a sound, she can _feel_ him awake next to her.

This is only the third night he’s slept in her bed, but she already knows the difference between the sound of his breathing in sleep – slow, deep, quiet – and the sound of whatever the hell his breathing is now – quick, shallow, choppy, anxious.

(The first night was all rushed, fumbling hands and broken bits of words.

Scared.

Awkward.

Desperate.

Perfect.

The second night was everything the first night wasn’t.

Long, slow, teasing kisses.

Gently wandering hands and lips.

Muffled laughter.

Whispered encouragement:

_is this okay?_

_god, do that again_

_what d'you want?_

_you like that?_

_yes_

_god, yes)_  
Tonight the exhaustion finally caught them, and they’d barely managed a few sleepy kisses before they both admitted defeat.

But he’s still awake, worn out as she knows he is.

And she needs to figure out why.

“I’m not sleeping,” she says, her voice low and quiet because she can sense something’s wrong, something’s off, something’s eating at him. But he can’t figure out how to tell her. She rolls over to face him, smiling as the barely there strip of light under the door outlines his face. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head (too quickly) and reaches out to stroke the back of his fingers over her cheekbone. “Nothin’.” The voice he uses is more for her now then it’s ever been (though it’s always been for her), and her throat tightens one more time at the realization of how soft he chooses to be when they’re alone.

“Daryl.”

He sighs, but it’s enough to let her know that all she needs now is patience.

Patience she can manage, especially when he reaches out and pulls her a little closer, runs his palm down her arm until his hand finds hers. She kisses his shoulder and waits, listening to the rhythmic tap of rain against the window.

After a few minutes, he swallows, looks right into her eyes (his own flickering with something she can’t quite place – uncertainty, fear, guilt), and says, “I thought you’d be mad. ‘Cause I lied.”

And she could pretend not to know exactly what he means, could pretend she hasn’t been waiting for him to ask her about it ever since she walked straight into him after the fight and he lifted her off the ground, arms so tight around her she could barely breathe, her whole body a prayer of gratitude that she hadn’t made a different choice.

But she doesn’t.

“I’m not mad.” She scoots closer, sneaking her knee between his for warmth. “But why didn’t you tell me?”

She knows the answer.

Doesn’t need to hear him say it.

But apparently he needs to say it, or they’d both be asleep right now.

“I hated lyin’ to you,” he whispers, his fingers gentle as he brushes her hair off her forehead and drops a kiss there. “I fuckin’ hated it.”

His breathing is even more anxious now, and she instinctively presses her hand against his chest and holds it there, waiting for him to continue.

“Still didn’t know, when I found you. Whether I should tell you.” He puts his forehead against hers for a long beat. “Then you opened the door and I saw your eyes and listened to what you said and I-” He sucks in half a breath before he adds, “I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

“I told you I’m not-”

But he doesn’t even let her finish he sentence, cutting her off as the words keep tumbling out. “Because then you woulda thought you needed to come with me. You woulda thought you needed to fight. And I didn’t want you to-”

He stops, and the silence seems louder than it was before. She squeezes the edge of the sheet into a ball inside her hand, trying not to speak to make sure he finishes saying what he needs to say. “I wanted you to be safe. And it was fuckin’ selfish,” he mutters. He’s staring at the pillow now, not meeting her eyes.

There’s a huge achy space inside her chest, pressing against her ribs as she tries to figure out how to respond. Finally she just scoots across the tiny space between them and wraps her arms around the radiating warmth of him, her mouth landing conveniently close to his ear. After a second she murmurs, “I don’t think that’s true.” She pauses, trying to make sure that the words she chooses match what’s happening in her head. “And you don’t always have to think about everyone else.”

She feels his his muffled chuckle against her neck. “Look who’s talkin’,” he retorts, but she can already feel his body relaxing, tension sliding away as he hugs her.

“Hey, I was selfish tonight!” she says, grinning when she feels the huff of exasperation on her hair.

“Don’t believe you.”

“Well you should!” She smirks. “I got Rosita to switch shifts with me so I could go to bed with you.”

“Doesn’t count,” he mumbles into her neck before he pulls back, looks at her for a second (with that expression that always melts her because his whole face is nothing but a swirl of love and disbelief), and kisses her lips, warm and relaxed.

She kisses him back until she’s sure he’s not thinking about lying or selfishness or anything except how good it feels to finally be able to do this whenever they want to, then flips over and fidgets until her back’s right up against his chest and she has his arm over her stomach, her fingers sliding into his. “Can you sleep now?”

“If you keep still, yeah.” There’s sleepy laughter in his voice.

“Sorry.” She’s not sorry, and he knows it.

“Thank you.”

The two words are barely more than a vibrating hum on the back of her neck. But she fights the impulse to say, _I didn’t do anything_ and closes her eyes, listening to the rain on the window and smiling as Daryl’s thumb makes circles on the inside of her wrist.


End file.
